


Desperate Are Those Who Remain

by pokey_jr



Series: The Yeehaw Chronicles [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Angst, Gen, SPOILERS for the end of rdr2, john/arthur if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 07:53:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16677598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: John Marston pays his respects.





	Desperate Are Those Who Remain

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the spoiler warning!!!

The day after he proposed to Abigail, John Marston woke up just before dawn. He pressed a kiss to his sleeping wife’s lips, lingering for the smile he knew she’d give him before rolling over, then took his boots, got dressed, and watched the sunrise before riding out. 

He’d put off this trip long enough. Thought about it so much, seemed almost like he’d already been there. He imagined it in his head, so often, it’d started showing up in his dreams. 

A pretty hillside, and the setting sun. That’s what Charles had told him. And then John had asked, “no, really. I don’t need to hear nothing poetic.” _Need to go there. Need to see it._

Charles had given him a knowing look, and John almost broke. “East of Bacchus station. Up the ridge above a strange little house.” 

“Thanks." 

“I’ll go with you, if you want. I’ll show you. It’s— it’s hard to find.” 

John swallowed thickly, and tipped his hat to cover his face. “No. I’ll be fine. Look after the place for me, would you? Don’t let Uncle shirk too much.”

It was about time he made this journey, and a damn long one it was too. He could’ve taken a train from Blackwater, saved nearly a week. Had the money for it.

He rode the whole distance anyway, pushing Rachel hard. What if he couldn’t find it? What if it wasn’t there anymore, somehow? What if Charles told a lie to make him feel better? 

Nonsensical worries harried him the further out he got. 

Alone on the trail didn’t suit him so well, not when he’d been away from it so long. Sure, he took jobs here and there, but things weren’t like before. He had a place to go back to now. Sometimes he wondered how Arthur had managed the solitude, but then again, it seemed to sustain him better than anything.

John reached the strange hill house mid-morning on his sixth day, took a rest, and then went up the rocky hillside on foot. Rachel followed him, nickering. As if she knew he might need her.

There it was. 

_Arthur Morgan._

He took the last few steps towards the grave slowly. It was covered with flowers. Bright bursts of lantana— John recognized that one at least. Arthur would know the others. Arthur would scowl at him, then clap him on the back and laugh, Arthur would— 

John pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut. He should take his hat off, except it was starting to rain. 

Can’t see shit in this, he’d meant to come up here and… well.. he didn’t rightly know what he planned to do, but at least take in the view and now the clouds have rolled in. Arthur would laugh at him for that, too. Black luck calls for black humor, and the man had always just seemed to accept that things would go bad, eventually.

Damned cheerful pessimist. 

And John— he felt a painful, reassuring tightening in his chest—John loved him for it. 

Arthur Morgan, dead in the ground. 

Years ago, he’d have found it hard to believe. The man was untouchable. A great scary brute, except when it came to dogs. Hell, the gang could be on the run through a town and Arthur would duck down an alley and find some mongrel to pet and waste his rations on.

John hadn’t brought anything. The man had enough damn flowers as it was, and it was really raining now, so the hat would stay on.

He stood there for a while, getting soaked, and reading the inscription over and over again. 

_Desperate are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness._

Desperate are those who remain, more like. The bitter thought kept coming to him, and John kept pushing it away.

Maybe he could say something. Maybe if he spoke a eulogy, Arthur would amble up from behind him, tease him and ask if all he had to do was die in order to get John to admit how he really felt.

A deep, long blasting whistle cut through John’s haze. Train coming through, up over Bacchus Bridge. Another blast, and he could hear distant thundering on the tracks, louder by the second.

It got his blood pumping. Not supposed to, but it did, always. By instinct, he looked over for a partner who wasn’t there, and his hand went to his neck to pull up a bandana he didn’t wear anymore. 

Ridiculous idea.

He couldn’t go, not just yet. He hadn’t even realized that the rain had let up until he’d heard the locomotive. Rachel had wandered away to a more suitable grazing spot, and took her time getting over when he clicked his tongue. 

Arthur’s journal. It was in his saddlebag, he hadn’t forgotten it. For a time, he labored over a sketch, which he was sure Arthur would have mocked. It was terrible, and probably would have been just as bad if he’d taken two minutes instead of thirty. He silently apologized for defiling the journal, why— he hadn’t even drawn the headstone big enough to write the words on it. Underneath, then.

_Arthur Morgan._

_Desperate are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness._

John looked up from the page, out over the valley. Beautiful view. He shook his head at it. Had to be getting home. He turned away to go, but a feeling he couldn’t examine too closely turned him back. He found a dry patch of ground next to the grave, and flipped to the first page of the journal. Civilization could wait.


End file.
